


A Matter of Trust

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 10:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16084613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Noctis never let anyone see his scar. Gladio had been searching for a way to fix that for years.





	A Matter of Trust

There was no amount of training that could change some things. Genetics played a huge part in that, Gladiolus understood that. He understood that physical strength was what he was built for— what his father had been built for. They specialised in big weapons and brute strength, his family. They were Shields, made of fresh and bone and bulk, to stand before the King. To stand between the King and a threat, and stop all harm through sheer force of will is skill wasn’t enough. 

Gladio understood that. 

He understood the way his heart skipped a beat at the thought of failure. At the way his stomach dropped and his throat tightened when he thought of not being enough to protect Noctis from harm. Of faltering in his father’s footsteps. 

Of seeing his Prince, his brother, his lover, injured or broken, because he wasn’t good enough to stop it from happening. 

The scar that ran along Noctis’ leg and curled up his thigh and back— remnants of sword and Scourge, hastily covered up with whatever was at hand— was a mark of failure in Gladio’s mind. It was an old scar, ragged from the daemon weapon, from the angle of it. From the way the break in skin was cut short as Gladio remembered the governess who had been trying to protect the Prince back then too. The Scourge had done the rest. It had seeped through the Prince’s body back then and poisoned him, it had festered until the Oracle could heal, and it twisted its way through Noctis enough to still leave him with aches years later. With bad days that had him trying to hide a limp, favouring his leg, standing stiffer than usual until he could be bullied to rest. 

“Don’t.”

It was a short command. It was familiar, and biting. Gladio’s hands stilled each time he heard it, and a cold fear that he had done something wrong gripped him. “Sorry.”

“It’s…” Noctis was frustrated with the marking, the reminder of his childhood trauma, his inability to heal. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Gladio never thought his failure was in not protecting Noctis from that harm— they were both children then, he knew he would have been useless even if he had been there. He had failed in helping Noctis accept the limitations the old injury placed on him. 

Noctis was always going to be smaller than him. That was genetics, they both understood that. Noctis’ talents lay in his speed and adaptability, in his dexterity, and the magic that burned through him. Gladio never thought smaller meant lesser. Certainly not when Noctis was dancing around him with the speed of a cat, weaving through his defences and picking at his resolve with playful smiles and quick jumps to safety away from the sweeping, slow arch of a greatsword. 

But the scar… 

“Can I see it?”

Gladio only ever asked on the bad days. On the days Noctis gritted his teeth and refused to back down. On the days when even Prompto was on the receiving end of the Prince’s lingering pain. 

On the days he had to manhandle Noctis away from training rooms and political conference rooms alike. Where he faced the stubborn streak just as willingly as he would face a behemoth for the younger man. Days when he would all but force Noctis to his apartment for rest, where there was a hot water bottle and painkillers waiting for them. And where he would kneel at the edge of the bed they often shared, between Noctis’ knees, and let his hands hover over clothed thighs. 

He would ask. He was used to rejection. 

But he offered a smiled and asked, even as Noctis hid himself away in his pain. 

On the good days, the refusals were more forceful. More honest. 

“I don’t want you to see,” Noctis would catch his wrists before he could touch. Before he could ask. “It’s ugly.”

They made do. Quick glimpses were never spoken of, and Gladio settled for letting himself be drawn in by Noctis’ eyes, his smile, his own quick and clever hands. It didn’t matter if half of him was hidden beneath the blankets. They still managed. 

And there were mornings, like this. 

Warm mornings where the light filtered in through the blinds. Where Noctis slept against him, blankets riding low on their hips as they had moved in the nights. 

Mornings where Gladio thought of Noctis’ hands the night before, tracing the lines of his tattoo— the details of it, the intricacies of the promise he made to himself. He remembered the teasing mouth and words as Noctis worked his way across muscle and ink and the myriad of shallow scars amassed through a life of training to be the best. He remembered resting on his stomach while Noctis moved— recounting the days and long hours it took to finish the damn thing, sitting with his Shield in the upscale shop, on a stool by the artist to watch the work— hands soothing away the memories of needle pain and aches afterwards. 

He wanted to say that he could never think of any part of Noctis as ugly. 

He wanted to press promises along that twisted, dark memory and make it better. He wanted to help Noctis focus and smile, and be proud of the scars he survived to bear. 

When Noctis was little, Gladio hadn’t pushed to see the damage. Not even as he learnt of it from his father. Nor when he studied pain management and healing methods to help. Not as his hands itched to try them out, to see if the right massage, the right touch, the right encouragement, would help. 

He had always thought, that if he could just see the damage, he could fix it. He could fix Noctis.

Now, with the sun offering him light, and the way Noctis moved offering him the look he had begged for, Gladio sighed. He knew what it was to be shy, to be scared, to worry that there was some insecurity that could eat away at confidence. He knew that Noctis would never know. Not with the way he slept. Not with the way Gladio could just shifts and get the examination he had spent years itching to get. 

He pulled the blankets back up, and settled for letting his hand rest over where he knew the scar to be. He let his hand trace the lines of Noctis’ back, the muscle and curve, and mused on how smooth the skin was. There was no gnarled ridge of daemon mark, there was no rough edges to catch his hand. It was an old, fading scar, from a wound that had just cut too deep.

He covered Noctis up again, stealing a kiss rather than a glimpse. 

And smiled as Noctis moved closer to him, turned in trust to cuddle closer.


End file.
